


A Streetcar Named Fabrinelli

by usuallyproperlyhydrated



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Glee
Genre: F/F, Modern AU, modern!Angie, one sided faberry mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyproperlyhydrated/pseuds/usuallyproperlyhydrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU where Quinn and Angie are in the same queer theory class at Yale. Quinn has a type, apparently, and it's tiny divas. </p>
<p>(Also, Fabrinelli is a thing now, I guess.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Streetcar Named Fabrinelli

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youngbloodbuzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngbloodbuzz/gifts).



> For youngbloodbuzz who sent me photoset of Yoda having a heart attack when I asked if she'd like to read a fic where Angie and Quinn kiss.

It was Friday night and Quinn was lurking in the lobby of the University Theatre, holding a bouquet of flowers a little tighter than she was willing to admit. She had just finished watching the Yale drama department’s production of _A Streetcar Named Desire_ and was waiting for one of the leads to come out.

Quinn caught sight of herself in one of the big mirrors and ran a hand through her short blonde hair. She ruffled it a couple of times, only stopping when her hair had achieved an acceptable level of messy-but-still-put-together-ness. When her appearance was satisfactory, she turned her attention to the flowers in her hands.

She frowned at them.

The show had started at 7:30, and Quinn had spent an hour before that in the local florist shop. Buying flowers was so cliché, she told herself as her feet took her inside against her will. People got flowers for actors all the time, her brain said. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you’re proposing. They’re just flowers.

This went on for some time, and she actually left the shop no fewer than three times before changing her mind and going back in.

In the end, one of the student employees talked her into buying a simple and elegant bouquet of purple flowers, which Quinn had carefully laid on her lap all through the production.

Now the show was over and Quinn was fidgeting and looking at the clock like an antsy first grader. To pass the time, she flipped through the playbill for the billionth time. Her fingers moved of their own accord to the headshot of the girl who’d played Blanche DuBois.

Her stomach flipped as she took in the black and white headshot. The girl’s eyes (which Quinn knew were a ridiculous shade of blue) were serious, her lips slightly parted. Her hair was darker than it was in person, the shades of gray obscuring its lovely honey tones.

Quinn’s eyes scanned the bio next to the photo.

_Angie Martinelli is a junior in the theatre studies program who hails from Brooklyn…_

The girls had a queer theory class together. Quinn was there to become more rounded in her literary theory studies (and, all right, she wanted to learn more about her newly-admitted sexuality). Angie was there for the queer literature. Although Quinn wasn’t exactly in the closet anymore, she wasn’t as loud and proud as some of her other LGBT friends. She mostly kept to herself during the class, and when she contributed it was always on a theoretical level.

Angie was exactly the opposite. It wasn’t that she was cramming her sexuality down peoples’ throats—she was just very comfortable with who she was and didn’t care who knew that she liked girls. She related a lot of the theories to her own life and freely shared those experiences with the class.

Quinn’s first impression of Angie was that she was like a less-intense lesbian Rachel Berry.

It was this comparison that had put Quinn on the fence about Angie. She’d tried for years to get over Rachel, and she wasn’t sure what kind of painful memories might be dredged up if she got too close to her classmate.

Keeping her distance didn’t last for very long, though. Angie worked at Quinn’s favorite sandwich shop near campus and would always strike up a conversation when she came in. Not long after that, Angie began migrating seats in class until her permanent seat became the one right next to Quinn’s. She and Quinn would discuss the reading and their weekend plans before class started, and they would also swap papers for peer reviews.

A few weeks before the production of _Streetcar_ , Angie had worked on making a nickname stick on Quinn. She’d tried “Lima,” “Smallville,” and “Ohioan” (the last one made her giggle so hard that their professor had given her an uncharacteristically cross look), all to no avail.

She finally settled on a suitable handle.

“Quinn Fabray!”

Quinn marveled at how different “Quinn Fabray” sounded in New Haven as opposed to Lima. In McKinley High, her name was always attached with some sort of stigma. Fear. Reverence. Pity. Frustration. Hatred. The pregnancy. The pink hair. The wheelchair. The nose job. The boyfriends. The cheerleading.

No one at Yale knew about all that. There was no stigma attached to her name here. Quinn was allowed to be who she wanted to be without her past weighing her down.

It had an especially nice ring coming out of Angie’s mouth.

Quinn tried not to think how nice it would sound if Angie murmured it into her ear in that lovely smooth voice of hers.

“Quinn Fabray, are these for me?” Angie’s eyes were shining as she bounded over to the corner where Quinn was standing.

“Yes.”

She tried to think of something clever or flirty to say, but couldn’t come up with anything. Instead, she handed the bouquet to Angie, who immediately smelled them and proclaimed them the most beautiful flowers she’d ever seen, let alone been given.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Angie said. “What if I’d been total garbage? Would you just have thrown these in the trash and left without saying hi?”

“I actually saw the performance on Monday, too,” Quinn confessed. “You were amazing, Angie. The flowers don’t even begin to cover it.”

“You saw it on Monday too? And you came back for more?” Angie scrunched up her nose in a self-deprecating way.

Quinn thought it might be overkill to say that she’d be willing to watch Angie act every day for the rest of her life.

“I know good acting when I see it,” she said instead. “And I think supporting the arts is important.”

“And I know a keeper when I see her,” Angie replied happily. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I have some reading to do and an essay to start…”

“Wrong. You’re coming to the cast party with me.”

“Oh, I don’t really mix with the theatre crowd,” Quinn began.

“Bullshit. I know you were in show choir in high school, Quinn Fabray. You’ve got theatre blood running through your veins just as thickly as I do.”

Quinn allowed herself to be swept out the door with her arm through Angie’s.

“How did you know I was in show choir?” she asked.

“Facebook.”

“I don’t have any pictures from high school on Facebook.”

“Every once in a while you’ll get tagged in a picture or a video where you’re wearing matching outfits with a rag-tag group of misfits and jazz hands-ing your heart out.”

“I untag myself as soon as I get the notification!”

“Not fast enough,” said Angie with a grin. “It’s a damn shame, really. Some of those dresses really showcase your best features.”

Apparently Angie had been watching Quinn as closely as Quinn had been watching her, and Quinn found that she didn’t mind one bit.

When they got to the cast party, it was in full swing. Loud music, even louder theatre kids, and plenty of alcohol. Both girls only had one drink apiece—Quinn hadn’t ever gotten blackout drunk again after high school and Angie said something about wanting to remember the night.

Quinn had been kind of worried that Angie would spend the whole night talking with her friends and leave Quinn nodding on the fringe of the group, feeling like an extra in a movie. And while Angie did talk to pretty much everyone at the party (“Except for Jaimi. Bitch knows what she did.”), she was always very attentive of Quinn and included her in whatever conversation she was having.

As is custom among theatre kids, towards the end of the night everyone began trying to outdo each other in karaoke. Angie brought down the house with a rousing rendition of “Is You Is or Is You Ain’t.” Quinn closed her eyes and let Angie’s pleasant voice wash over her.

When she opened her eyes, Angie was standing next to her, beaming.

“Your turn, Quinn Fabray,” she said breathlessly.

“I’m not really a soloist.”

She hadn’t really had the opportunity to solo in high school, and the only time Quinn sang now was in the shower when she was one hundred percent sure that none of her roommates were home.

Angie was nothing if not persistent, though, and demanded a private audience with her friend. She dragged Quinn out to the balcony of the house the party was being thrown in, her hand warm in Quinn’s.

“Come on,” Angie said when they were alone. She didn’t let go of Quinn’s hand. “Dazzle me.”

“I don’t—”

“Quinn Fabray, you saw me at my most vulnerable twice in that show. The very least you can do is return the favor.”

Angie’s blue eyes were so earnest that Quinn really couldn’t say no.

“What should I sing?”

“Do you know Lily Allen’s cover of ‘Somewhere Only We Know’?”

It was one of Quinn’s favorites, so she began to sing it quietly for Angie. She looked out over the backyard as she did so, not quite being ready to be at the level of vulnerability where she sang looking into Angie’s eyes.

When she was finished, Angie clapped enthusiastically.

“Damn, girl, you have pipes!” she exclaimed. “You have to try out for the musical next semester. They’re doing _Grease_ —you’d be a killer Sandy.”

“The only way I’d be Sandy is if you were Danny,” said Quinn, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Angie gave Quinn an amused look, her head cocked to the side. Just as Quinn was about to flee the scene, Angie leaned in and kissed her. Her lips and skin were soft and kissing her was as warm and as comfortable as lying in the sun on a spring day.

Quinn had kissed a dozen people, eight guys and four girls, and Angie was definitely her favorite.

“Mmm,” hummed Angie as Quinn pulled away. “You’re a great kisser, a great singer, and a great writer. What else can you do well?”

“You’ll just have to stick around and find out,” Quinn said with a smile.

“You bet your ass I will,” mumbled Angie, grabbing Quinn’s shirt and pulling her in for another kiss.


End file.
